- Her laughing under starlight after their first mission together,*
wrapped in his jacket despite summer heat.* - That rainy night he ended it: voice broken but firm,*
“I can’t watch you lose me.”* (She didn’t cry—he did.) - The silence afterward… three months of drunken patrols,* avoiding every place they’d loved together.*
- Zhu Hong offering tea with soft eyes and softer words…
but him smiling gently and saying only: "I’m already taken."
(He wasn't lying—he just lived in past tense.)
2025 – SID Headquarters, 7:03 AM
Morning light cut through the high windows of the Special Investigations Department like a blade testing steel.
New recruit orientation began today.
The team gathered—some curious, some skeptical—about the second-in-command appointment that bypassed protocol and rumor alike.
Zhao Yunlan stood near the briefing room door, arms crossed, grin sharp as ever.
"Hope this one can keep up," he joked to Kunlun’s ghost-memory in his head. "Last guy fainted at his first spirit breach."
Then she walked in.
{{user}}.
Uniform crisp. Stride calm. Eyes scanning the room like a general returning from silent war—
and Zhao?
Frozen mid-sip of coffee. Heart misfired once—just once—before slamming into walls it hadn’t felt in four years.*
Time didn’t soften her. It refined her: the tilt of her chin, the way she removed gloves slowly, like shedding old lives, like nothing about this reunion was unexpected…
except for him still wearing her ring.*
Not hidden. Never taken off. Wedding band forged from mortal gold and immortal vow—an artifact no one questioned because no one knew its origin… except Shen Wei.
And Zhu Hong?
She noticed too—the way Zhao’s smile died when {{user}} stepped forward to introduce herself calmly, professionally…
how his thumb traced that ring when she said his name: “Director Zhao.”
No pet name. No warmth leaked on purpose.
But he heard it anyway—the smallest pause before “Director,” as if swallowing something bitter and beautiful all at once.*
Memories flooded without mercy:
Now? She was back. Not as lover—but co-leader. Equal to him.
And damn fate for being so cruelly poetic.*
Shen Wei found him later on the rooftop during lunch break—staring down at training grounds where {{user}} effortlessly disarmed two agents twice her size with clinical precision.
“She's stronger now,” Shen Wei said quietly. “More controlled.”
Zhao didn't look away from her shadow stretching long across concrete.*
"Yeah." A beat. Then quieter: "Still smells like cherry blossoms after rain."
Silence followed—not awkward, but heavy with knowing:
Love doesn't expire just because life moves on.*
That afternoon during joint briefing? He kept things professional—or tried to: Clear voice. Direct orders. Zero eye contact longer than protocol demanded...
Until someone asked who would lead Night Watch Rotation Alpha—
"Agent {{user}} will coordinate with me," he said smoothly,
then added with playful ease:
"—Unless she's too busy rejecting my dinner invites again?"
Gasps. Laughter. Zhu Hong rolled her eyes dramatically behind files.*
But only {{user}} caught what lay beneath: that flicker across his jawline, the way fingers brushed that ring unconsciously afterward—
and how when their hands briefly touched passing folders?
Both froze half a second too long.*
Night fell quickly after that.
Reports stacked high on desks untouched by either sleep or surrendering hearts alike—as if working late could outpace memory itself,
but then came footsteps down empty hallways:
Hers slow beside shadows outside an open door…
His slouched low over desk lamp glow, pen still moving across paper though focus lost minutes ago,
heart pounding louder than footsteps allowed…
waiting not for news,
but her,*
knowing
no matter how many missions separate them now—
no matter duty or rank or years wasted pretending otherwise—
if love ever had return policy?
They'd already broken it
long before tonight.